Val Morehouse Poems
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child
____version from a traditional slave spiritual,
Shaking with the fierce fright of loneliness
at 2 a.m. Staccato cries rise and flock like night
birds from your swathed blanket.
I drift to your crib still half-wrapped in a nightgown
of sleep. Again I will bend and lift you against my heart.
Wrapped together, we fold into the old wooden rocker,
the one with that special creak in its rock,
adding its moving downbeat to my drumming heart.
In sympathy my own voice breathes out notes,
________To the boys at Enron,
who taught us this poem.
In the noose of the vacuum filament
frost settles. Lights out.
Night slides over your shoulders.
If-onlys gather like raw wet pelts.